


Domestic Bliss

by Tyrion_Lannister



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, I am so sorry, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyrion_Lannister/pseuds/Tyrion_Lannister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a short smutty oneshot for three of my favourite characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic Bliss

Grantaire sees the punch coming – a swift, potentially brutal uppercut to the jaw – and rolls with it, hitting the ground and kicking out his leg to bring Bahorel down with him. He laughs, the sound loud and alive over their laboured breathing, and swerves out of the way as Bahorel drops with a yelp, the impact when he lands seeming to shake the very foundations of the house they share. Before Grantaire can regain his breath, Bahorel is on top of him, broad thighs bracketing his hips and hands pushing down on his shoulders. Grantaire grins, exhausted and panting, shaking his head in mock-exasperation as he runs his hands appreciatively up Bahorel’s legs, pausing just shy of his crotch. “Ok, you win, I surrender.”

Bahorel grunts in response, a self-satisfied smirk pulling up the corners of his mouth. “Damn right I win.” He splays one enormous hand against Grantaire’s collarbone and drags it down until it rests, tantalisingly, on the muscles of his stomach, still trembling slightly from exertion. “And you know what that means for you.” His eyes are amused as he flicks them up to focus on Grantaire’s face, raising an eyebrow in obvious challenge.

Grantaire swallows dryly, his heartbeat quickening, and he swears he can feel the hot thrum of blood in his veins as it rushes to his groin. _Hell, by the look of startled smugness on Bahorel’s face, he’s probably feeling it too_. “Yeah, I know.” He wriggles beneath Bahorel, the bigger man’s weight where he straddles his hips providing a delicious point of contact between them, but finds himself thoroughly pinned, unable to move more than inch either way. “Are you gonna move, or…?”

“Nah.” Bahorel’s grin is teasing, wicked and _gorgeous_ , Grantaire thinks. “I rather like it here.” As if to prove his point, he rocks his hips slightly, rubbing deliberately against Grantaire’s burgeoning erection and savouring the high-pitched whine the motion elicits. “Fuck’s sake, Bahorel…”

The protest is weak and Grantaire knows it, still gasping from the sparks of burning pleasure shooting up from his groin to his abdomen. Bahorel looks at him almost tenderly, stroking lightly up his chest, before swooping down – _oddly gracefully, thinks Grantaire, but then so much of Bahorel is_ – and capturing Grantaire’s parted lips in a rough kiss. Grantaire lets out a pleased hum at the feeling of Bahorel’s stubble against his own, bucking up into the solid form above him, delighting in the hand on his chest and the thighs surrounding him and the hardening cock pressing into his own.

Bahorel’s mouth opens, inviting, at a nimble sweep of Grantaire’s tongue, and Grantaire takes the opportunity to bite down hard on Bahorel’s full lower lip, grinning broadly into the other man’s mouth when he yelps in surprise and arches back. Swiftly, Grantaire uses Bahorel’s distraction to shove him up and flip their positions, until he’s lying in between Bahorel’s legs, leaning over him to kiss him again, hungrily pressing their mouths together as he runs his hands up underneath Bahorel’s shirt. Bahorel groans, low and deep, and Grantaire can feel the vibrations beneath the hand resting against his broad ribcage.

They kiss like that for a few minutes, hips continually thrusting and writhing in counterpoint, until Bahorel pushes him up with a mumbled “too many clothes.” Grantaire smiles back, eyes glazed with lust and mouth reddened from forceful, desperate kisses, and pulls his worn t-shirt off in one smooth gesture, tossing it carelessly across the room before dropping his hands to Bahorel’s buttons. Within seconds, Bahorel’s shirt has joined his own on the floor, and they’re kissing again, bare chests sliding together like puzzle pieces slipping into alignment.

“God, Bahorel, I want you –” When he speaks, panting heavily into the chiselled line of Bahorel’s jaw, Grantaire’s voice is husky, barely recognisable as his own, deepened as it is by arousal and rough from the broken noises forcing their way out of his throat. Bahorel makes an approving sound, a rumble that seems to emanate straight from the bottom of his chest, sitting up beneath Grantaire and sliding his arm around him to keep them both upright.

“You lost the fight, R” – he punctuates his words with sharp nips at the sensitive flesh of Grantaire’s throat – “…and that means I get the say on what happens tonight.” He smiles wolfishly at the shudder that passes through Grantaire’s body at his words, licking a broad stripe up the line of his neck before capturing his mouth in another, softer, kiss. “Luckily for you, I’m feeling generous. Strip for me.”

Grantaire nods in acquiescence, looking wrecked as he pushes himself up, one arm on Bahorel’s solid shoulder to prevent himself from stumbling. Once upright, he doesn’t back away, standing between Bahorel’s legs as the bigger man leans back on his elbows and looks up at him with an appreciative smile. Trembling hands find his belt buckle and somehow manage to unsnap it, pulling it away from his tattered jeans and letting it fall to the floor; the jeans themselves are quick to follow, gracelessly pushed down Grantaire’s legs and kicked off impatiently. He isn’t wearing socks or boxers, the result of a lazy Thursday afternoon sparring with Bahorel and sprawling out on their ancient sofa to watch shitty daytime television.

Naked, he stands in front of Bahorel, erection prominent and obscene. Bahorel’s eyes darken, his gaze lustful as he stares at his boyfriend, exposed and vulnerable as he is, and when he speaks, his voice is barely louder than a growl. “Turn around, and put your hands behind your back.” Grantaire obeys, crossing his slender wrists at the small of his back without question, and breathes in sharply as he feels Bahorel’s strong hands on him, wrapping his belt around his lower arms and tightening it until his arms are drawn back and he’s panting, cock twitching helplessly with frustrated arousal.

“Good boy.” Bahorel’s voice is a low, approving murmur, and Grantaire suppresses the urge to whine and whimper and beg. Instead, he stands still, gaze focusing on the frayed edges of the carpet as he tries to keep his composure. He feels Bahorel standing up behind him, a flash of movement in his peripheral vision, but doesn’t turn; a brief second later, there is a strong hand pressing against his lower back, urging him towards the sofa. Grantaire moves forward as if in a dream, allowing Bahorel to bend him over at the waist until he’s resting on the arm of the chair, ass pushed out and legs spread as his chest and shoulders bear his weight, hands still tied behind him.

“Fuck, R, you look so beautiful like this, I wish you could see yourself…” Bahorel sounds almost wistful and Grantaire shuts his eyes, turning his face into the soft material of the sofa. _He still finds it hard to accept praise, to fight back the desire to run and hide, even after several months of being in the most stable relationship of his life._

Suddenly, without warning, a harsh smack lands on his ass, and he jolts with a surprised yelp, cock throbbing between his legs where it lies abandoned. Before he can recover, there is another resounding smack on the opposite cheek and he cries out, caught between pleasure and exquisite pain, hips thrusting forwards futilely in a vain search for friction. Bahorel laughs, and the sound sends frissons of anticipation up Grantaire’s spine. “I’ll be nice this time, Grantaire, don’t you worry.”

 _The words are reassuring but the tone is ominous_ , thinks Grantaire. His apprehension is proved right not a minute later when he feels a finger, already lubricated, press firmly against his entrance, sliding in to the second knuckle almost without a pause. Grantaire _keens_ and bucks, his movement restricted by the belt restraining his arms, only relaxing when Bahorel strokes a soothing line down his back, murmuring soft words of comfort. Soon, a second finger joins the first, stretching Grantaire open as he sobs nonsense into the arm of the chair, his back arching when Bahorel hits his prostate with long, talented fingers. Bahorel is ruthless, fucking him with short, sharp jabs of his hand, wringing involuntary whimpers from Grantaire’s throat with every movement until the only words he can formulate are “ _fuck_ , Bahorel, please, _I need you_.”

Eventually, Bahorel retreats, and Grantaire slumps over the sofa, knowing the brief respite from the sensations racking his body will only last as long as it takes Bahorel to push down his jeans and roll on a condom. Sure enough, within a minute Bahorel is leaning over him once more, a hand coming to rest in his dark, unruly curls as the other spreads him open in preparation for Bahorel’s cock. Grantaire whines, high and needy, feeling the head pushing up against him, but his efforts to shove himself back are immediately thwarted by Bahorel’s hand, still holding him tightly by the hair. The penetration, when it finally comes, is intense, a burning pleasure that Grantaire simultaneously wants to move into and curl away from. As it is, he can do neither, pinned in place by Bahorel’s superior weight, so he moans his exhilaration into the sofa cushions, cursing under his breath as Bahorel slowly bottoms out. “Fuck, faster, _ngh_ …”

“Impatient.” Bahorel tsks, sounding out of breath as he holds himself still, waiting for Grantaire to adjust around him. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t, just, _fuck_ , _move_ -” Grantaire’s words are cut off by a strangled moan as Bahorel finally shifts behind him, pulling out a few centimetres before sliding smoothly back in. Bahorel’s hand finally releases his hair, scratching a row of red lines down his back before squeezing his ass and Grantaire whimpers, knowing he’ll have yet more bruises to add to his collection by the time they’re through.

“God, you’re so good…” Bahorel’s voice sounds almost reverent, a far cry from his usual light-hearted tones, and he picks up his pace, slamming into Grantaire and forcing him further over the arm of the chair with punishing thrusts of his hips. Grantaire’s breath feels as if it’s forcing its way out of his lungs and he pushes back with every motion until Bahorel couldn’t possibly be any further inside him, skin pressed together from hip to thigh. They’re nearing completion, Bahorel’s breath stuttering as his rhythm falters, when they hear the familiar jangle of keys at the front door.

Bahorel doesn’t stop, merely slowing his movements with a quick grin as Feuilly pushes the door open and stops in his tracks, eyebrows raised in an expression of sardonic surprise. “I see you started without me. _Again_.”

Bahorel laughs good-naturedly, circling his hips in lazy little motions and ignoring the small frustrated noises Grantaire is making beneath him. “Well, what else do you expect us to do when you’re at work?”

Feuilly shrugs, shooting Grantaire a quick smile as he removes his coat and heads towards the kitchen. “I could hear you from halfway down the corridor, you know. You’ll have the neighbours complaining again.” He sounds disapproving but both Bahorel and Grantaire are familiar enough with his quirks to detect the amusement in his tone.

“They’re just jealous,” Bahorel calls back with a smirk, landing a light slap on Grantaire’s ass as he goes back to fucking him in earnest. Grantaire groans in relief and ruts forward, his cock rubbing against the sofa providing a delicious friction.

Feuilly re-enters the room a couple of minutes later, eyeing the scene before him with an unfathomable expression on his face. He pauses by the door, leaning up against the frame, and reaches a hand up to undo the buttons of his shirt, one by one, keeping his gaze fixed on Grantaire and Bahorel. “Mind if I join?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Bahorel grunts in response, hips pistoning faster and faster, the slap of flesh against flesh seeming unusually loud in their small living room. Grantaire’s mouth drops open, his eyes flashing with want as he stares at Feuilly, silently disrobing on the other side of the room. It doesn’t take long for Feuilly’s clothes to join the heap of discarded items already on the floor, and then he’s stepping over to the sofa, placing one slender hand against Grantaire’s spine as he leans up to kiss Bahorel. He draws back after a brief second, his cock already hard from observing his lovers, and Grantaire catches him motioning to Bahorel out of the corner of his eye.

Without comment, Bahorel pulls out of Grantaire completely, ignoring Grantaire’s moan and flopping down onto the sofa with his legs spread in front of him. Feuilly smirks wickedly, wrapping his hand around the belt that secures Grantaire’s wrists and tugging until Grantaire is standing upright in front of him, stretching to relieve the soreness in his abused muscles. Feuilly pulls Grantaire close, narrowing his eyes fiercely in Bahorel’s direction when he sees the bruise beginning to bloom on Grantaire’s jaw, before crushing their lips together in a ferocious kiss, the sensation of their erections rubbing together sending fiery jolts of pleasure through them both.

Dimly, Grantaire registers Bahorel groaning in approval behind them, his tongue slipping into Feuilly’s mouth as Feuilly draws him closer, one hand fisted in his hair while the other probes at his entrance, still loose from Bahorel’s cock. Feuilly gently circles a finger around the rim before pushing it all the way in with one relentless thrust, savouring Grantaire’s surprised squeak and the way his erection twitches, caught in between their bellies.

Unprompted, Grantaire breaks away from Feuilly, dislodging the finger and dropping to his knees on the soft carpet. Feuilly’s cock looms in front of him, beautifully hard, and Grantaire wastes no time in opening his mouth around the head, flicking his tongue over it and closing his eyes as Feuilly’s low moan washes over him. His mind goes delightfully blank as he relaxes his throat and bobs up and down, the pain from his straining shoulders no longer bothering him, pressing his head into Feuilly’s hand like a cat. It isn’t long before Feuilly is pulling him off and urging him up with a wistful sigh. “Getting close there, R.”

Grantaire allows himself to be pushed backwards towards Bahorel, losing himself in the feeling of numerous hands manipulating him until he’s straddling Bahorel on the sofa, his back to the larger man’s chest as he’s lowered gently onto his erection, stretching him wide open again as he sinks down with a moan. Once he’s fully seated, Bahorel wraps a strong arm around his torso and hauls him back until he’s almost reclining against Bahorel’s chest, cock bobbing upwards with every tiny movement. Grantaire writhes and wriggles, trying to force Bahorel’s cock deeper inside him, but he’s held fast and tight, arms pinned behind him.

Feuilly, still upright, leans over to the side table and retrieves the lube, slicking up his fingers swiftly before moving them behind to his own entrance. Grantaire’s eyes widen at the sight and he suppresses a strangled moan, the realisation of what is going to happen slowly dawning on him as Feuilly’s mouth falls open, his lips red and his breath hitching while he breaches himself. Sure enough, when Feuilly removes his fingers a brief minute later, he smiles at Grantaire’s expression before moving to straddle him, face to face.

“Fuck!” The exclamation is Feuilly’s, tossed out as he lets his head fall backwards, impaling himself on Grantaire’s cock. Grantaire hisses through his teeth, eyes rolling back in his head, the sensations shooting through his body proving almost too much for him to handle. He can already feel the coiling tension in his gut that signifies his impending orgasm, the dual feelings of Bahorel in his ass and Feuilly on his cock driving him right to the edge. “ _Nnnngh – I can’t_ –”

“Shhh, you’re doing so well, nearly there.” Bahorel’s voice is strained but calming, murmured into Grantaire’s ear, one hand coming up to stroke his tangled curls away from his forehead. “God, Grantaire, I love you.”

Grantaire drops his head back against Bahorel’s shoulder at the words, turning his face to nuzzle into his neck. Feuilly smiles at the sight, almost tenderly, before beginning to move, rising and falling on Grantaire’s cock and forcing his lover further down onto Bahorel. They move in sync, months of practice informing their every movement, each thrust timed perfectly as they gasp and moan into each other’s mouths, fingers clutching hungrily at slender hips and broad shoulders.

Before too long, all three are dripping sweat, expletives slipping from their mouths as they rock together, and it only takes one more well-aimed thrust before Grantaire is screaming out his orgasm, bucking wildly between his boyfriends as he spills deep inside Feuilly. His frantic movement sets Bahorel off as well, and he curses loudly as he comes, fingers tightening around Grantaire’s stomach with one last slam of his hips.

Feuilly groans, feeling Bahorel and Grantaire losing it beneath him, and stands up, Grantaire’s cock sliding easily out of his hole as he gets to his feet. He spares a second to take in the sight of his boyfriends collapsed together on the sofa, still entwined, and then his hand is wrapping itself around his own erection as he quickly jerks himself off. His breath comes loud and fast, sounding laboured even to his own ears, and within ten strokes his toes curl and his orgasm hits, painting vivid stripes of white across Grantaire’s chest until his hand stills. Sated, he returns to the sofa, curling up next to Grantaire and Bahorel with a satisfied quirk of his lips as they separate themselves, exchanging lazy kisses and reaching for the box of tissues on the floor.

They stay like that for the rest of the evening, naked, sharing each other’s warmth under a blanket; and when Grantaire rises first for his morning cigarette, contemplating his partners with a sleepy gaze as they huddle close in sleep, Bahorel’s arm slung loosely over Feuilly’s narrow waist, the feeling of utter contentment welling up inside his chest is like nothing he’s ever experienced.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm orestesgayandpyladesalsogay on tumblr if you want to come by :)


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